


In the Blood

by Crait



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2019-03-05 20:49:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13395957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crait/pseuds/Crait
Summary: Art, dinner, and conversation.





	In the Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Filling "beauty" for Gen Prompt Bingo.

Only on very rare occasions did Hannibal cook for someone else. This was not true in the most literal sense—an invitation to his dinner table had once been the golden egg of certain social circles in Baltimore, and perhaps still would be, if for different, more sensational reasons—but in the most precise sense, it was certainly true. He cooked for himself; that he occasionally entertained an audience was meant to complement to his own dining experience, not the experiences of others.

But for Will, he cooked; and he not only cooked, he took into account taste. This was as in all things a matter of ongoing negotiation, as Will learned the full flower of flavor available to him and Hannibal discovered what Will found merely foreign and what he truly disliked. More game found its way onto their table, and more freshwater fish; Will was wary of sweetness or of dishes that struck him as overly complicated, although he was beginning to trust Hannibal's knowledge of his palate and consequently beginning to embrace his own appetites.

Consider:

"I would very much like to take you to the Prado," Hannibal said. They were dining by candlelight on the terrace, a terribly indulgent setting in weather that was a trifle too cold to sit comfortably outdoors, but Hannibal was unbothered by the chill, and Will wore a thick, soft sweater that would have kept him warm quite effectively even without the additional insulating layer of dog hair.

Will's face pulled in a way that was too fond to indicate genuine distaste. "A museum?" he said.

"An art museum, yes," Hannibal said. 

"I don't do… _art_ ," he said.

"You believe that you know little about it, you mean," Hannibal interpreted. "Certainly not enough to appreciate it."

Will paused, took a sip of his wine. "I think we've established that I don't share all of your tastes," he said, the start of his sentence lost to the end of his swallow.

"I find I am more interested in helping you develop your own tastes than inflicting you with mine. It is a novel development." Tonight they dined on bouillabaisse in deference to dear Will's sensibilities. Simple and classic, but flexible. "Do you truly believe that an appreciation of art is any different from your previous occupation?"

"Looking at crime scenes?" Will said. "Maybe. Then again, maybe not."

"You find it easy to assume another's point of view." An old observation, but relevant. There were times Will thought very little of his own opinions, and times he was merely apathetic towards the subject at hand; Hannibal delighted in teasing out those threads of interest.

"The implication being that all art is merely the artist's point of view."

"Or a reflection of the artist."

"I don't believe that," Will said. "It's possible to lose yourself in it. Commentary, maybe, but the self…"

"You don't believe something of the self is revealed even inadvertently through the act of creation?"

"I thought we were talking about murder."

"About art," Hannibal said, "yes. You cannot pretend an unconventional medium shocks you at this point in our relationship."

Will laughed a little; his impulse was still to disguise the humor he sometimes found in the macabre. "No," he said. "I guess not."

"If you have not found yourself moved by more conventional works, I must assume it is only because you have never had a proper guide. Art, be it music or painting or…"

"Crime scene."

"As you said. It is intended to be personal and evocative."

"Sensation, not reason," Will said.

"Precisely."

"But not always beauty."

"We all find beauty in different places. Discovering what moves you can be a deeply intimate process."

"And you think my door into appreciation is assuming the artist's point of view? That seems like the opposite of what you've been trying to do."

"What do you mean by that?"

"You've been asking me to draw boundaries," Will said. "Put up barriers… preserve my sense of self." He said it with a certain sardonic detachment.

"I want you to define yourself, yes. I have no wish for you to neglect your gift, to stow it away in a box on a dusty closet shelf; but neither do I want you to lose yourself in the tide of what others feel. If empathy is the door, then I hope it is a door that allows you to walk down the hallway to the gallery of your own preferences."

"But it's more than that, isn't it?" Will said. "It's a balancing act. Walking the tightrope. You want me to be able to do whatever it is I do, because it's how I understand you. That's what all this is about—taking me to museums, to the opera. You following me out to the river or sitting with me in the workshop. It's about sharing. Connection."

"Union," Hannibal said.

"Except that isn't all of it. You want me to be able to assume your point of view, but you also want assurance that I'm here of my own free will, not because I'm so overwhelmed by what you want that I can do nothing but mirror that attraction back at you. It's why you like it so much when I disagree with you. When I tell you no. And that surprises you. Maybe a little less every day, but you think it will take you years to learn to love someone you can't control. No—someone you don't _want_ to control."

And still could Will surprise him. He had been a delight from their very first meeting; there weren't many who could navigate their way through conversation with Hannibal when he wasn't bothering to soften the edges of his thoughts, but Will had wound his way through those passages with startling ease since the dawn of their relationship. He had captured Hannibal's own metaphors and spun them into something new, and that was its own kind of creation.

"Can there be true union without equity?"

"I never let myself hope for that."

"Nor did I," said Hannibal. "I never even thought to hope." He allowed himself a moment to study the way the warm, soft light limned Will's face, bringing out the scar on his cheek, casting the planes of his face into a shifting chiaroscuro, blunting the edge of eyes that saw too much, and then he redirected his attention to the slice of monkfish at the end of his fork and transferred it into his mouth. When he was finished with the bite, he said, "Have you never felt the urge to create?"

"I feel other people's urges." _Your urges,_ he didn't have to say. 

"And for your own part?"

Will blinked, although he was not surprised by the question. He was growing accustomed to frequent solicitation. Good. "I build things," he said. "Or fix them. Or save them."

"Or destroy them."

"Or destroy them. It's pretty simple, as far as art goes, but maybe it's the closest I've ever gotten."

"I've always wondered if you truly believe yourself simple, or if you realize how much of the simplicity you embrace in your life is the result of a deliberate muting of the world to provide yourself with a restful haven."

"You think I lived in the middle of nowhere with only a bunch of dogs for company because I was overstimulated," Will translated.

"Because you couldn't quiet the voices in your head, yes."

"I knew. But it wasn't… just that."

"You are less invested in performance," Hannibal acknowledged.

"Sometimes I wonder if your fine taste isn't just another medium," Will said, and then he rewarded Hannibal with a scolding look that did nothing to stifle the smile curling across Hannibal's lips. "You know what I mean."

"You believe I express my viewpoint through fashion and the culinary arts."

"And music, and sketching, and… other things. You're stuffed to the brim with opinions."

"Or perhaps I only have one opinion expressed in many different ways."

"A commentary on humanity?"

"All art is a commentary on humanity."

"That feels reductionist."

"But no less true for being reduced."

"If all art is both a commentary on humanity and a reflection of the artist," Will said, "I wonder what that says about you."

"A question to which you have no shortage of answers, I'm sure."

"Someone has been encouraging me to develop my own opinions," Will said. "It's been enlightening." He looked out over the back lawn. They were quiet for many minutes; Hannibal finished his meal and refreshed their wine glasses while Will stared into the black evening and wandered his own mind's passages. Deeply intimate, indeed.

At length, Will said, "I'll go with you. To that museum."

"Thank you. I believe you will enjoy the experience."

"Probably. Although probably not as much as I enjoy fly fishing."

"Good," said Hannibal, and he was pleased to discover that he meant it.

**Author's Note:**

> Outtake:
> 
> "If all art is both a commentary on humanity and a reflection of the artist," Will said, "I wonder what that says about you."
> 
> "Perhaps that I'm a humanitarian," said Hannibal.


End file.
